


Break My Body (Hold My Bones)

by loveinallthismess



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Infidelity, Light Bondage, M/M, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Tags Subject to Change, brief mention of underage masturbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-09-25
Packaged: 2019-06-26 21:11:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15671367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinallthismess/pseuds/loveinallthismess
Summary: And as Armie wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his hands on her stomach, all Timothée could think was 'I know what your husband’s cock tastes like'.Love is more than a happily ever after. Timothée and Armie learn to navigate a relationship sprung from infidelity, complicated by an age difference, and held together through sexual liberation, passion and kinship.





	1. Chapter 1

Perhaps this was how it felt to be the heir apparent; chained to the throne. The ornate wooden headboard was a ridiculous accoutrement to Armie’s modest new apartment. Purchased furnished, Timothée had no doubt that the wide four-poster bed served a large role in Armie’s choice to settle here.

Timothée remembers laughing, seeing it for the first time as Armie took him on the grand tour, the short five-room journey a far cry from the sprawling “it’s not a mansion,” with seven bedrooms, four bathrooms and a swimming pool that comprised the house on the coast. A lion formed the centrepiece of the bedframe, carved from dark mahogany. Timothée pushed aside the thick drapes, huffing as he sat on the mattress – good spring, firm but soft, they had chosen it together the week before, laying side by side in the mostly vacant showroom.

He reached a hand up to touch the rich, red velvet, brushing the material the wrong way so it rubbed coarse against his fingers. Armie watched from the doorway, shoulder pressed into the doorjamb, one foot tucked behind the other. A casual stance to an outsider, but Timothée could spot the tension in his arms from across the room.

Timothée flashed him a smile, stretching and falling backward onto the bed. “Did swingers live here before you?”

He heard Armie chuckle. “I didn’t ask, but if you find a bowl of keys anywhere just toss it and don’t tell me.”

With his eyes shut, Timothée could sense as Armie padded across the hardwood floor; they would need to get a rug. He rolled into Armie the moment he laid beside him, nose pressed near his armpit. Armie smelled like aftershave and clean sweat. He’d obviously unpacked the last few boxes before arriving to collect Timothée from the airport with a hug that lasted a tad too long for public consumption.

Armie wrapped his arms around him. “Do you like it?”

“It’s better than staying in a hotel.” Timothée snuggled closer, liking the weight of Armie’s arm against his ribcage, slowly rising and falling along with his breathing.

“If I’d had more time we could have looked at some places together.”

They’d sat at the small breakfast table in their hotel room as Armie bookmarked apartment listings on his laptop. All of them at least two bedrooms and no more than a thirty-minute drive from the not-a-mansion. Timothée had flown back to New York for a meeting that was apparently impossible to hold via phone and by the time he landed a picture of the new apartment sat in his inbox.

“It’s great,” Timothée said quickly. He gave Armie one last squeeze before sitting up, propping himself back on one elbow. “Do I get a draw?”

“With the amount of Gucci you’ve been acquiring lately I think you’ll need a whole closet.”

“Shut up. I got a lot of it for free.”

“Brag about it.” Armie smirked and Timothée shoved his shoulder. “But seriously, you should bring some of your stuff here. I’m sure your mom would appreciate getting it out of the family storage locker.”

Hospitality had always been a strong suit of Armie’s. In direct opposition to the carefully curated donations his parents doled out for reputation, Armie had a giving streak as high as the Empire State building. Timothée had learned to lean into it – a three-month stay at the Hammer’s residence, no questions asked. He could almost believe the benefits were just for his sake, but he knew how Armie treated all of his friends; he wasn’t special, except he was.

“You know,” Timothée tilted his head to the side, playing coy, “we should probably christen the place. Get rid of the ghosts of swingers’ past.”

Armie gave him a look that clearly said ‘we have some things to talk about later’, but thankfully acquiesced to his downstairs brain, hand dropping to cup his growing bulge. “Oh yeah?” he asked, his gaze hot and dark.

 

***

 

Timothée’s wrists are trussed and secured to the headboard, a simple column tie that joins his arms together in a gentle stretch above his head. The wooden slats hold solid as he gives the rope a tug; not even a creak.

“I can untie you.” Armie trails the leftover rope through his fist, standing, considering, at the foot of the bed. “If you want.”

The ropes aren’t uncomfortable, just a gentle pressure against his skin. The knots are good, strong, but Timothée knows that Armie could have him released in seconds. He can’t stop himself from pulling again, feeling out the stretch in his shoulders. It’s different from having Armie’s hand wrapped around both wrists, when he can feel his bones grate together as Armie’s grip tightens in increments when he loses himself to the sensation, clamping down when he comes. Timothée loves the ache afterward. When his hands throb as the blood returns and Armie’s lips feel like they buzz against his skin as he presses kisses into any marks he’s left behind.

Rope is conspicuous, and until recently, discretion had been the key word. Stolen moments in hotel rooms and liberal facetime sessions didn’t leave a lot of room for physical props. The drag of skin against skin, a fierce mouth clamped against his throat, his fingers tangled roughly in Armie’s hair – this is what he had grown accustomed to over the last two years. The feeling of wanting somebody so much that having to pull yourself away from holding their hand was almost agony. Timothée knew that feeling.

 

***

 

One memorable day Liz had taken the kids with her to Texas to see the bakery and her parents. Timothée was wrapped in two sweatshirts despite the heat, bony feet in Armie’s lap as they watched a documentary about ants, because apparently that’s what people do in the middle of the day once daytime reality television has become unbearable.

“I’m so hungry,” he whined. “If we were on _Survivor_ or some shit, I would eat all the ants.”

Armie picked up his foot, digging his thumb into the arch. “Do you need me to make you something to eat?”

Timothée smiled to himself, eyes shining as he tucked his face into his sweatshirt. The hunger was throwing his emotions out of whack and Armie’s simple offer of food had nearly reduced him to tears. He shook his head. “Filming doesn’t start for two weeks, and I gotta lose another few pounds before then.”

Armie frowned. “I don’t think you have to do anything.”

The contract was verbal. Timothée wanted to show he was committed to the role, to his craft. _Call Me by Your Name_ had so far only played the festival circuits, but already the reception was more than he had dared to dream. Performance, and the deconstruction of performance into naturalism, the obsession with finding the truth of the moment and portraying it onscreen had become the ultimate goal. To be thought of as nothing more than your last acting job remained an all too true mantra; and the hope in Hollywood was to never be forgotten and thrown away as nothing more than a one-hit-wonder.

 _I can lose twenty pounds, I mean, I want it to be authentic_.

He shook his head again. “It’s fine.”

Armie exhaled through his nose, moving Timothée’s feet from his lap as he made to stand. “I’m getting you a sandwich.”

“No.” Timothée grabbed his hand, pulling before Armie could escape to the kitchen. “I’m just being a complainer. My schedule’s down for me to eat in, like, an hour.”

Armie looked like he was going to argue, so Timothée reeled him in, placing Armie between himself and the couch and sitting on his lap. He waited for another comment about his weight. They hadn’t fucked since _Beautiful Boy_ went into pre-production. The physical closeness and the severed intimacy had taken its toll on him. Pleasantries with Liz were easy on the red carpet, fine at friendly parties, but within their home it came down to a hostage situation. Please the captors or find oneself in a lot of trouble. And Timothée knew he was being selfish. Knew others would think him young and naïve for even entertaining the notion of placing himself between a husband and wife and believing that he had any right to belong there.

“I just want to take care of you,” Armie said. “Let me? Please?”

Armie pressed a kiss to his cheek, swiping his thumb across the hollow before leaning back in and kissing him softly on the lips. His tongue was gentle against the chapped skin Timothée had unconsciously chewed raw. Timothée opened his mouth to let Armie in, the warmth of him seeming to melt through his whole body, leaving his face flushed when Armie pulled back, rucking up the layers of sweatshirts and making to remove them.

“Stop.” Timothée placed a palm on Armie’s chest, pushing slightly so that Armie dropped his hands and leaned into the cushions behind him. “We can’t do this here.”

“What difference does it make?”

“Fuck,” Timothée muttered under his breath, flopping to the side, tucking his knees to his chest. “If you didn’t care we wouldn’t be here at all,” he said quietly. “You care, don’t pretend you don’t.”

“I want you.”

That single phrase which always held the silent promise of a _but_ had been enough to incite everything. All of this. The dripping, sun-dappled, languid kisses of Crema – indulged while on set, stolen furtively when ensconced within their rented apartments. Then Elizabeth arrived and she was pregnant, ‘shh we shouldn’t be telling anyone yet, but isn’t it exciting!’ Timothée had smiled, false and bright, cheered with the enthusiasm expected of a twenty-year-old who hasn’t even begun to think of marriage and babies yet. And as Armie wrapped his arms around her waist, rested his hands on her stomach, all he could think was _I know what your husband’s cock tastes like_.

Liz left three days before the end of filming. Three days full of fucking; bruising; marking. Every moment they were not on set, not being watched, was spent with naked flesh pressed together. As much punishment as it was pleasure. He wanted to climb inside Armie’s skin, cup each organ in his hands before throwing them aside, snapping bones until he had carved out a space just for himself, nestled right below Armie’s heart.

Timothée cried for him. He cried for them and what they could have been, crouched in front of the fireplace, hypnotised by the flickering flames. And when at last the fire was snuffed out, equipment was packed up, costumes stowed away – the goodbye felt final, but he couldn’t allow himself to cry again.

The phone calls began a month later.

_“Hey, I know you’re filming that thing in New Mexico, but if you’re ever on the west coast you should drop by.”_

Like nothing ever happened.

_“Liz and I got to find out the baby’s sex today. We’re having a boy!”_

Just two buddies that happened to meet on the set of a film about a life changing love affair.

_“I’m looking forward to seeing you at Sundance.”_

Timothée’s favourite teacher at LaGuardia always said you have to jump into any situation with both feet. In terms of acting this simply meant that if you were apprehensive about a role then your performance would always be guarded. Try as you might, it would never be as good as if you approached the role with fearlessness and let yourself be open to the experience, whatever may happen. At the very worst you’re left with a great learning experience.

He’s not going to lie and say he went in blind. His eyes were always open. But to jump in with both feet shouldn’t apply when confronted with the depths of the brackish water of a still, black, lake where there is no clear view of the bottom, and the only likely outcome is to fall, splintered, onto the waiting jagged tree limbs hidden just below the surface.

Armie’s hand around his throat felt like coming home. The pieces of thread threatening to unravel from the spool were now held in Armie’s fist. They kissed, frantic, Armie’s fingers in his hair, his hands tugging Armie’s shirt up and the zip of his jeans down. He was just about to drop to his knees when Armie pulled him in close, arm held still by the sling lying awkwardly between them. Armie’s cheek nuzzled into his hair.

“I want you,” Armie breathed into his ear. Timothée shivered. At home, Elizabeth sat with the new-born baby, while her husband stood in the middle of a locked men’s bathroom with his pants around his ankles.

Luca had advised him to watch the film before the premiere. Timothée had declined, wanting to see the movie for the first time with a full audience. In the dark, in the seat next to Armie, they watched as their on-screen selves fell in love, like it was always inevitable.

In the not-a-mansion, next to Armie on the couch, Timothée wrapped his arms more tightly around his knees. The invitation to stay had of course been extended by Armie. The moment of warmth doused cold as Liz’s high lilt trailed down the phone, “of course, we’d love to have you, honey.” He could hear a baby start to babble, pictured them sitting together on the couch, Armie holding the phone between them as Elizabeth cradled Ford to her breast.

Armie reached out, gently taking his hand and lacing their fingers together. “Let’s go to a hotel.”

He wasn’t being chosen. Not then. Not yet. But soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who left me some lovely messages about this story. Instead of doing uni work, I wrote you this instead. Enjoy!

 

_“I can untie you. If you want.”_

Timothée pulls his gaze down from the twist of rope to find Armie watching him, eyes roving like Timothée is a puzzle to be solved. He lets his wrists fall limp. Rests the crown of his head within the cradle of his arms. He’s acutely aware of his body on display. Nipples peaked, skin stretched delicate and thin over his ribs, thighs splayed atop rucked white sheets.

“I – I’m good.”

“Yeah?” Armie asks.

His brow furrows. “Uh, yeah?” He’s unsure what Armie expects of him.

The rich furnishings diffuse the bright overhead light, warping the glow toward the romanticism of a vaseline smeared lens. He wants Armie near, so of course Armie retreats, places the leftover coil of rope neatly into the plastic tub of toys. Their closet’s a mess, mismatched socks constantly spill out of the dresser drawer, and the sink always has at least five unwashed glasses in it – but this container remains meticulously organised. That most of the items have lived with Armie for longer than he’d been with Liz makes something curl low in Timothée’s gut that he can’t quite explain.

 

***

 

 _Exotique_ was a vintage Parisian fetish magazine. Detailed articles on the eroticism of whipping your partner, or the best way to tie a cloth gag were sandwiched between full-page spreads of women and men clad in black leather, raunchy lace, and restrictive corsets. At fourteen, it wasn’t the first porn Timothée had seen, but standing in the middle of his sister’s bedroom, those images spilled from the page, wrapped around his legs and planted him to the floor. He’d only been looking for a hairbrush, searching idly through Pauline’s vanity, and now this lay in his hands like the key to a lock he never knew existed.

He’d returned the magazine the next morning while Pauline was at ballet practice. The pages slightly rumpled and sticky and the images burned into his mind. He attempted to recover it a few days later, blushing through his shame, the pull too strong to resist. It was gone. Years later he offhandedly mentioned it to Pauline, curious where the magazine had appeared from in the first place.

She had thought for a moment, before the memory struck. “Oh, you remember my friend, Victoire? She found it in her parents’ bedroom and brought it along so we could have a bit of a laugh at it. I think she forgot it and I gave it back the next day so she could re-hide it.”

He did remember Victoire and the rest of Pauline’s group of friends in Le Chambon-sur-Lignon. The difference of a few years in age had made them seem like these unattainable figures, exceedingly cool and effortlessly aloof, while Timothée was a coil of gangly limbs, bad haircuts and over-sized clothes.

He made up for the lack of popularity by becoming a maestro of masturbation. The internet was spotty at best in the French countryside, but Timothée possessed an advanced imagination. When he wasn’t at football practice he was dedicating hours to experimenting. His CD player got a true work out that summer, blasting music to cover any untoward noises as he let rubber bands strike his flesh. The hitch in his breath from the sharp slap much different to the gentle gasps he elicited whenever he’d dig clothes pegs into his skin, his nipples. The quiet moan when he slid his fingers inside for the first time, bottom wet with lotion, his other hand jerking dry because he liked the rough pull too much.

“When did you even see that?” Pauline asked.

Timothée’s hand came up to toy with the hair at his nape, self-soothing. “I just found it on accident.”

Pauline didn’t press, she was completely unaffected. “I hope Mom and Dad didn’t see it as well. That would be really embarrassing.”

“Yeah, embarrassing,” Timothée trailed off.

 

***

 

“Hold onto the headboard.” Armie’s breath was hot against his ear. His stubble rasped across the sensitive skin of Timothée’s neck. “You leave your hands there and you don’t let go; maybe you’ll get a reward.”

He wanted to buck, clutch at Armie and pull him closer. Instead he clung on, head falling between his elbows with the submissive curve of his spine. Hips tilted upward, carnal and lewd.

“Good boy,” Armie whispered into his skin. His hot mouth traced over goosebumps, bit into Timothée’s scapula, sucked bruises down his back. Opened the core of him with a gentle but insistent tongue until Timothée was whining, knees slipping wider on the hotel comforter. He wanted to spread completely. Pull Armie on top of him, inside of him, but the suit pants around his thighs held him captive. For Armie’s mouth, he was an audience that never wanted to leave.

Afterward they shared a joint. An ashtray rested on the bed between Timothée’s parted legs and Armie’s head lay pillowed on his thigh. He ran his fingers through Armie’s hair, grabbed a hold and tugged at the roots until Armie’s neck was tilted back. Timothée leaned down, their faces an inch apart, lips slack as he exhaled, smoke spilling from his mouth and curling into Armie’s waiting embrace.

The city of Berlin was bright with twinkling lights strung along the street below them, reflecting the flurry of tiny snowflakes swirling on the breeze. The window was closed tight against the chill. Armie felt like a furnace at his side.

“Was that too much?” Armie asked. Timothée had thought he’d fallen asleep, and the question startled him as his own body began to doze.

Armie pressed a kiss to his inner thigh as his fingertips traced lightly over the red sharpness of a forming bruise. Timothée shivered, his skin tender across the back of his thighs, his ass that still held the blotch of a handprint.

“Was what too much?” he replied cheekily.

“Fucking Christ,” Armie laughed as he rolled onto his back and pressed the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. Timothée couldn’t help but take his fill, gaze still hungry as he drank Armie in. Pec’s covered with a medium dusting of hair that felt surprisingly good against him when they fucked face-to-face. The expanse of his stomach, slightly less concave then it had been in Crema, but muscled and solid beneath his hands.

He let his hand drift down to Armie’s cock, soft against his leg, the glans still wet, shaft tacky. Armie caught his wrist, grip tight for a moment before he moved to tangle their fingers together. Timothée let Armie pull him into his side, more than happy to stretch against him and luxuriate in Armie’s warmth.

“You’re kinda perfect, you know that?" Armie said.

"Why, ‘cause I let you slap my ass?” It’s more than that, Timothée knows. More than he’s willing to admit out loud yet.

Armie shook his head, his smile bright. He hooked his chin over Timothée’s shoulder and started a slow massage of his lower back. Timothée hissed when his hand fell too low.

“Sorry, I haven’t _played_ in so long I guess I don’t know my own strength anymore.”

“Nah, I like it.”

Armie’s massage paused momentarily before picking up again. “You really do, don’t you.”

Timothée squirmed backward so he could look him in the eye. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” Armie leaned forward and Timothée let himself be kissed, lulled by the large hands cupping his jaw. They maneuvered themselves under the covers, ashtray plonked soundly on the floor to be taken care of in the morning.

“When we get a chance, I should use a paddle on you. I think you’d love it.”

It was the first time Armie had vocalised a future meeting. In Italy it was always _here_ and _now_. Elio and Oliver were discussed in terms of decades, centuries, as if they were always destined to join as one, with only the small factor of the universe keeping them apart. For him and Armie - for they were not _them_ yet, not a unit like EliOliver – the calendar countdown to the end of filming was the period at the end of the last paragraph. It may hang in your memory, but the book is over.

Only it wasn’t.

And the excuse of Crema, the _one_ excuse Timothée allowed himself was no longer viable. That they were both inexperienced with portraying this level of intimacy on the screen and they simply got carried away, but hey it all added to the performance, right? Yeah, bullshit. At Sundance, maybe he could’ve lied to himself and said that the excitement of seeing each other in person again after months and months led to an unequivocal lapse in judgment that would never be repeated. Wrong.

_“You look so good tonight. If we didn’t have that press conference in ten minutes I’d fuck you in the bathroom again.”_

That salacious statement from Armie, spoken low into his ear only hours earlier as they’d posed for the media onslaught. Armie’s hand sliding as the cameras flashed, starting at Timothée’s shoulder, then moving to his upper arm, before finally coming to rest at his waist, comfortable and sure, like it belonged nowhere else.

And then during the fucking Q&A, Armie had said that –

_“We basically did together everything that we did in the movie.”_

Armie may as well have given a vaudevillian wink for how playfully obvious he was being.

Timothée quickly interjected, _“there were some things in the movie that, that we – we didn’t – “_

 _"That we didn’t do. Right.”_ Armie had finished for him.

Nobody said anything. Sure, the media commented on their closeness, which seemed to be dubbed as slightly unique even amongst the current burgeoning era of the affectionate bromance – but nobody knew who Timothée was yet. And Armie had a history of being jokingly touchy-feely with co-stars. Nobody suspected anything.

Was there even anything to suspect?

Timothée yawned, attempted to push the mess of hair back from his face, smirked when Armie tugged on a curl that immediately fell back onto his forehead.

“Maybe one day I’ll even let you tie me up,” Timothée said.

Armie’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Timothée chuckled. “I’ve seen your twitter likes.”

“You know what, you little brat…” Timothée tried to twist away as Armie attacked him with a barrage of limbs, tickling beneath his armpits, along his sides until he found himself breathless and completely pinned beneath Armie’s bulk. “Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” Armie finished.

It was a powerful feeling to know that you were wanted by someone. More so wanted by somebody whom you want too. And once a taste has been given of that feeling, it becomes an almost excruciating endeavour to try and let go.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me at paradiseorpurgatory.tumblr.com


End file.
